recordar Bon Vinai (parte dos)

The Recycled Minds blog (linked in the IHE piece) reproduces the language of the change. After reading it, I think it is simple insecurity on the part of "scientific anthropologists" that is inspiring the hubub. The changes in no way denigrate scientific approaches, they simply don't mention them. To me this does not in any way de-legitimize scientific approaches, it simply provides a more inclusive framework for what anthropology can be.

As I've always said, the beauty of anthropology is you can do anything you want* and call it "anthropology" (*with proper theoretical and contextual backing).

I think the real issue is stemming from the fact that the "scientific" parts of the discipline are already marginalized to an extent. The change is serving to remove one small claim to centrality they had. So, I think its more of a political issue than ideological issue here. But then again...what isn't?

recordar Bon Vinai

There's been all sorts of hubub because the AAA's "future plan" (not its mission statement) has dropped the word "science." And thus, of course, this Inside Higher Ed article is being widely circulated.

Now, I haven't read the full text of the future plan, so I shall reserve official judgement on the change in the future plan (though my initial reaction is that--despite my usual proselytizing against "objectivity" and quantitative data--scientific components are important to anthropology, particularly in linguistic, bio/physical, and archaeological sub-disciplines and to remove the wording is only to further distance these important aspects of anthropology from the hegemonic cultural forms). However, the IHE article is annoying me because its reproducing something that I think is all too common both among academics, and the public at large: a false dichotomy between "science" and "local ways of knowing" or "humanities approaches" (I think 6th grade science teachers may be to blame). It seems to me that the strength of anthropology is the ability to incorporate different ways of knowing. To understand something scientifically while not foreclosing other ways of understanding the issue. So perhaps that means that "science" should remain in the future plan, but I'll reserve judgement until I actually read the thing.

In the article however, I particularly found the last statement interesting.

"Are we to accept the local explanation that children are dying ... because someone is breaking a taboo and the gods are angry," he said, "or do we look to see how fecal matter is being introduced to the water supply?"

I think the false dichotomy is most evident here. A good anthropologist knows that their own understanding of a situation may be different than the understanding of those around them, but simply jabbering on about microbes to people who haven't had advanced chemistry or biology training isn't going to get very far. Rather understanding danger, but communicating in a way that makes sense in the local lexicon and view are what make anthropology a valuable tool, at least in public health situations.

Anyway, this all reminded me of something written by one of my favorite past professors. Dwight Conquergood worked with Hmong refugees in Thailand, and helped design and direct "a health education campaign based on native beliefs and values and communicated in culturally appropriate forms." --using community theater.

Health Theatre in a Hmong Refugee Camp: Performance, Communication, and Culture

A few excerpts:

"Specifically, we started a refugee performance company that produced skits and scenarios drawing on Hmong folklore and traditional communicative forms, such as proverbs, storytelling, and folksinging, to develop critical awareness about the health problems in Ban Vinai."

"Any communication campaign that ignored the indigenous cultural strengths of performance would be doomed to failure."

"Simplistic health messages imported from Western middle-class notions of cleanliness simply would not work for Ban Vinai. What was needed was a health education and consciousness-raising program that was sensitive to the history and specific environmental problems and constraints of the camp."

Using the character of "Mother Clean" and Drawing on the poj ntxoog evil ogre character from Hmong folklore, they created an ugly Garbage Troll.

"Mother Clean would lovingly amplify the message of proverbs, explaining how a small village on a mountain slope with plenty of space for everyone could absorb organic refuse naturally through the elements of wind and rain. She pointed out that Ban Vinai is very different from the mountaintop villages in which the Hmong used to live. Consequently, customs and habits, particularly regarding garbage, needed to change accordingly. She exhorted a change in behavior without degrading the people whom she was trying to persuade, locating responsibility in the environmental circumstances."

bigotes

toward an anthropology of beards (cont)

from Fake Science

la lucha de los EEUU

just a little shout out to the heathered levis and her awesome quotes on the vida lucha in the huffington post.

el doctor joven

this blog was recently compared to the musings that appeared at the end of Doogie Howser, MD. i took this as extreme compliment. not because I remember 'ol doogie writing anything terribly interesting, but because i loved that damn show. i loved doogie. i loved vinnie. i love that whole "wiz kid aces SATs."

well, it occurred to me that the reflexive journal writing as ending to television episode genre did not end with doogie. indeed, that neoliberal bastian of consumerist womanhood, sex and the city, also used such a convention. needless to say, i was pleased this was not the show chosen for comparison.

that is all. just some meta-reflexivity today.

miedo de nuevo

just a link to another great dc blogger's take on the stewart/colbert rally.

en cordura y el miedo

i went to the stewart/colbert rally to restore sanity and/or fear. mostly i went because it was here, and seemed to be what all the cool kids were doing. But I allowed myself the privilege of claiming my involvement was something of "participant observation" given my research interests in the efficacy of various forms of (performative) social movements.

As per usual, my thoughts on the rally were not without critique. Was this just another vagina monologues/take back the night/national coming out day stunt to promote decidedly neoliberal ideologies and distract us from the real issues all in the guise of progressive politics? Well, pretty much, yes.

But as faux mia pointed out over vegan breakfast, protest in the U.S. doesn't work (anymore?). So we've moved on to something else. Something more corporate. Something less overtly (but still covertly) political. Something that appeals to desires of the masses and does not contradict or question the ideological indoctrination they've experienced since their reagan-era births. perhaps its as lukacs and postone suggest-the commodity fetishism pervades all aspects of life. we can't escape it, even in our efforts to express dissent.

celebrity is the new politics. We have wrestlers and bodybuilders that have become governors, and presidents that have been compared to paris hilton (not that i'm saying it was an astute comparison). corrupt governors get recruited for reality tv shows. politics is celebrity and celebrity is politics. hell, have we already forgotten that colbert actually tried to run in south carolina?

and this phenomenon is perhaps not unlike the cholita luchadora phenomenon. the overt political connections are not clearly defined, but it is a spectacular event that cannot truly be understood without analyzing it as political. it speaks to social relations, but in a way that is digestible to the crowd that gathers for it. it does not push the boundaries too far.

so then, the real question is: what is the effect? will we being to understand political rallies as forms of entertainment (which is basically why i went, as well as the middle-aged african-american guy next to me on the bus "well, its saturday, and its something to do."), complete with celebrity music performances and professional athletes video-conferenced in? will they become just another outlet for coca-cola or comedy central to sell their wares? and if so, does this necessarily forclose the possibility that they can contribute to progressive political action?

i suppose in both cases, only time will tell. but if performance truly is a space in which social relations become more clear and possibilities of change are envisioned, then we might be on to something here.

bebiendo

i've recently realized i have a bar to call my own. and it happened on accident i suppose.

back in the days when the bar formerly known as El Camino was known as its former and current name (which shall not be named...) i stopped by with the boys on thursday nights to claim my status as "lady" and thus, free appetizers. on friday's i'd go with B for our free 9-10pm well drinks, competing to see who could drink more (until she went to rehab). in the beginning, i hated the place, and would have much rather gone to Guillo's. but alas, by the time the place shed its pseudo-mexican interior, i was joining softball teams, friends with the barbacks, and showing up solo.

and somewhere along the way, i've realized that this is how you know a bar is "yours": you have no hesitation to go it alone.

and now i find myself happily, unexpectedly, wandering into the bird on friday afternoons. and people shout my name as i walk in (i mean, really, who hasn't always wanted to be "Norm!"). Greg asks if i want a yuengling--amusing because it was just a fluke that i ordered it the first time, but i'll go with it. i help people with crossword puzzles, and get updates on the pool to see if Ralph really will get married (he did). but that's the afternoon. its easy to shout names and remember beers when the lighting is good and there are 3 people in attendance.

but saturday night, i wandered in around 10:30, and heard the same "Nell!" as i sauntered in with a birthday crowd. now something magical happens to the bird around 8pm most days. the disgruntled government workers have their fill of schlitz and wander home, while skinny jean donning 24 year olds with unkempt hair filter in. the bartender starts carding. and they stop keeping tabs. and with this transformation, i never expect special treatment. but alas. John (who i had not seen or talked to since the spring) called my name from behind the bar, took my order, and told me my drink was on the house. and i breathed a sigh of relief.

in a way, i had come home. not just to the bar, but to the neighborhood. to the community. to the city. and maybe its silly to say that community exists in a neighborhood bar. or maybe it just makes me an alcoholic. but i would argue that its a public sphere in a habermasian way. i've had conversations (or arguments) ranging from immigration law, to charter schools, to heroin addiction. i've critiqued the capitalist economy, and then gone to the atm to pay my tab. and i've cursed myself many a time for ending up at the raven, because i always drink one too many drinks and can't sleep, but the reason i go back and stay too long is not the schlitz. its the people. good conversation and feeling like i belong. and isn't that what everybody's really looking for? and you can't entirely control where you find it, i suppose.

Appadurai en bigotes

thanks to professor ponger

‎"Even an unkempt beard must be maintained"

A. Appadurai

la isla playa larga

leaving scammellot (too) is always a bit painful. but truthfully, this time i went in not knowing what to expect. all of my previous scammellots have been parties. 10 kids filling the house. el capitán flowing liberally. people i've known for what feels like forever. half-nude, manual strobe-light dance parties, firecrackers aimed squarely as human flesh, bonfires ignited with rustoleum, bloody marys in the morning, beer in the afternoon, and tequila in the evening. and someone always wakes up where they're not supposed to.

but this was not that. just my best friend, JC, and i (not even el capitán made it this time). tits was busy, fiend visiting the lady, JC recently single, and the r___ living the [practically] married life. and so it was calm. sure we began the day with beer. we ran to the beach, jumped in the water, removed garments, and let the waves lap us around. we dug our feet into the sand and talked about blush-worthy topics. i extolled the virtues of the ring, and discussed the intricacies of NAMBLA. and it was just as magical as any other scammellot.

and so, as i dropped them in the municipal parking lot on route 9 and turned back south, i had a tear in my eye. not because i'd miss them, or because i'll have to wait at least 6 months before i can dig my feet in the sand again, but because i always fear i'll never find people like them again.

every year the distance between LBI and dc seems further. every year i plan more and take fewer trips to the city. every year it gets harder. and coming back always makes dc feel foreign and uninviting.

but then this evening i ran into my favorite st.louis/chicago/dc resident, and planned for catching up. i gossiped with raf at the conference. i had brief conversations with the jag about fieldwork. and though its no replacement, the people here are truly great. they'll just never live up to dancing in a thunderstorm to blind mellon.

bigotes: fieldnotes

just a snippet from the other night.

a crowd of archaeologists (professors and graduate students) gather at a bar. they order a few pitchers of beer and chat in the patio area which overlooks a busy dc street. those at the far end of the table barely notice when JR wanders in from the street and takes the open chair next to his advisor. from down here, nothing looks amiss. and then dan (the advisor says):

"What happened?[and with barely a pause for breath] I don't like it"

JR replies:

"It was a mistake and a tragedy"

Alas, JR's clippers were broken and he unknowingly shaved a stripe into his beard while trying to trim it. So the whole thing had to go.

Now, as you may guess, he's a rather light haired italian man, so from the far end of the table in the dim evening hour, the beard's absence was barely visible. But Dan, given his proximity, continued to discuss the problems with beardless archaeologists (and i'm not touching that gendered dynamic).

I questioned JR and he said in the last few years he had only shaved for work, never had a goatee, and would certainly grow the beard back as soon as possible. he just didn't feel like himself without it.

los diarios motocicleta

i watched the motorcycle diaries tonight for what i believe was the third time. its a gorgeous movie, haunting at times, and appeals to my leanings (however one would describe them). but its also the "intertextuality" of the film that makes me love it so much. for some reason its touched my life in strange ways.

to begin with, z-gil (the first of my anthro-gils) took me to see it in hopes of persuading me that latin america, not china, was a more fitting fieldwork location. the ploy worked. possibly too well. and here i am writing in a blog i started upon going off to perú.

secondly, most people know i have a soft spot for one gael garcía bernal. and seeing him always reminds me of that patrón party for cuarón where i hoped he'd be. alas, i had to settle for heather graham. and it was possibly the only time i "used" my NYRB credentials. but that was also the first time i met val. which is suppose is somehow significant. (note that despite a strong desire, i am not referring to her by the borat-inspired nickname)

its strange i suppose. the movie makes me remember places more than anything. lima and la paz (though i only noticed on this viewing that they never make it to bolivia-which is a shame, because 1952--the year they traveled--was also the year that land reform took place in bolivia). carbondale. jersey city. places that evoke strong nostalgia coupled with memories of unhappiness, at times. as the admiral wolye-holt would put it, the "kind of beaut[iful feeling] that hurts"

abd

so i defended my dissertation proposal yesterday. dissertation PROPOSAL. don't get any ideas. so, yes. i'm ABD. all but dissertation. but really it should be written aBd. all BUT dissertation. that's an important "but."

and it wasn't as exciting, relieving, exhilarating, climactic as i thought. in fact after i finished i just sort of felt disappointed. i'm not sure in what. myself? the experience? the conclusions the four of us drew about my research question? i'm not sure. but i cried. right there in the hallway. in front of d'vine. and not in a single tear running down my cheek sort of way but in a my throat is closing up and i can't speak and my face gets contorted and i want to close my eyes tightly and open my mouth widely and let the stress all pour out through my eyes sort of way. and then when i finally removed myself from the situation, i went to the history bathroom and had a good loud wailing cry for about 15 minutes until some other unsuspecting woman came in. i figured i'd better quiet down, shut myself up, and get on with things (which involved free sorbet and seeing h-gill's new giant television).

but this is not a good sign. if this is how i react to the PROPOSAL defense, what's going to happen when i defend the real thing. in front of friends and colleagues. in public. where anyone with a ph.d. can ask a question. damn.

but really the point of all this is (unfortunately) that i ended up watching the season finale of the real world tonight (they were in new orleans for anyone like me who might be clueless). and they all leave the house one by one and talk about how much they've grown and grown together and come to love one another and how they can't imagine what it would have been like without each and every one.

and i suddenly realized: someday i have to leave grad school.

it was heartwrenching when rumagin, tune, and rodo al left at the same time. and its still empty without them. but at some point, i will have to walk away and leave everyone behind. sure, some of my cohort will already have made their way into the world. rodo's already there. the partridge has left prematurely, and otto's about to run off to Mugabe-land. but at some point jules, jag, futurama, k-pearl, jtorres, and all those others i've grown close to will have to turn our backs and go off into the world we've been avoiding for so long.

and maybe the gradualness of the process makes it easier. maybe the ending of coursework, and then fieldwork, and then shutting yourself up in a windowless room (not so different from a cube) to actually write the damn thing provides an adequate transition period.

but these people are special to me. different from the rez. different from 409. and certainly different from my high school friends. but we have seen each other at our worst, and supported each other at our best. because we know we are not alone. and not just in a "damn if i don't question you maybe dolores will think we actually understand this stuff and not put me on the spot" sort of way, but in a true sense. because we know that in the end what makes you better and stronger makes me wiser too. and our interests are disparate, and our theories conflict. but i trust and love these people so much.

and they've taught me so much too. i was commenting to h-gill over sorbet yesterday, that there are all these things i have strong opinions about that i really don't know the details of. but when you have a friend writing a dissertation on a topic, and they tell you michelle rhee is the devil you trust them. and you may pick up on the reasons along the way, but because they're less urgent than the protests in potosi, you don't remember the details. so you just blindly agree that south african casinos obscure the inequalities of post apartheid and hunting practices in queros can only really be understood in light of eco-tourism. and i stand by that.

and maybe i'm just getting a little sappy, but i hope i know these people forever. i hope i run into them at aaas for decades to come and someday we're all department chairs and have some sort of reunion in a random marriot room and drink margaritas and reminisce about cactus cantina. because i think that hope is the only thing that will make walking away from this place and these people possible.

libros y canciónes

this is a pitiful way to post for the first time in 2 weeks, but all i can do is apologize.

after 2 weeks of fretful insomnia, i may have kicked the habit. thus, i woke up at 5:30 am today (a mere hour after my usual 4:30 am fall-asleep time as of late) after a lovely night's sleep. and i randomly stumbled across a list of stereotypes by favorite indie band. I found this especially interesting because my favorites change so often, and are even more likely undefinable (and not in an "oh, i'm so knowledgeable i can't be pinned down sort of way. or an i'm so knowledgeable you've never heard of my favorite band sort of way. no, just in a hm...who do i feel into today sort of way). and the wonderful thing about that positioning is you get to decide which stereotype you like best and go with it. So I went with bat for lashes. mostly because ee and i were talking about them the other night, and they were at the forefront of my memory.

So apparently, i wear leggings to places other than 80s parties. Which is true. But I wear them under dresses in the winter. I'm not sure that counts.


But the real point here (if this is even an excuse for a "real" point) is on this list there was a link to stereotypes by favorite author. Now, if you have had any discussion about fiction, books, love, death, life, inanimate objects, cigarettes, choice, or any other number of pseudo-philosophical topics, you know who my favorite (fiction) author is. but of course, as expected, he is not on the list. however, what i didn't consider is that the close 2nd (though still undoubtedly second) would be on the list. and since #2 was the mentor of #1. and #2 shares things like cities and academic disciplines with me, it seems only right that I consider him as my stereotype.

So, I don't think I've ever actually "played Creep by Radiohead while having sex or smoking pot." But if someone insisted I had, I wouldn't argue. Though i was (surprisingly) never much of a radiohead fan, most of my friends were. so, even if i never actively played the song, i can easily imagine that it may have been in the mix at some point in serge's room or 409 or the like. but the reason i'm really writing about this (another "real" point?) is the brief stereotype also includes a link to a fuller explanation, in which this fine blogger suggests i must be crazy (so true), ever changing (who isn't?), "random and varried" (sure...), and a rebel (i wish!).

so, there you have it. leggings and rebellion. i can live with that.

a casa (de nuevo)

a year & 1/2 ago, i wrote about coming back to dc from chicago. about resetting my computer's clock.

i've just done it again. school is about to start, and i'm painfully missing all that i left behind. but the strange thing is, i felt that way upon arriving in chicago 3 months ago.

the week before i left was magical in a way. it was one of those times when the senses are heightened and everything is urgent. And this was due in no small part to the immanent departure of several good friends. Having earned post graduate degrees, all were bound for greater adventures...in the UK, South America, and the Texas (yes, the Texas). And we celebrated in style. Late night margarita-fueled romps through our favorite garden. Galavants through the woods in the pouring rain. BBQs turned dance lessons. Jack Daniels-inspired antics, and a long night that began with Japanese bar karaoke and ended at 4 am the the Chesapeake basement.

The city felt alive and I wanted to kiss everyone. I wanted to pour myself into their lives the way Carolina kept pouring wine into my glass. But time was running out, and we had spent too many of our opportunities simply staring at maps in the cubicles. These moments were all we had left.

carolina pours me more wine

And then after staying up until 4am and stealing the Chesapeake basement bed from ben, i awoke on a wednesday morning at 8am. I with my wrinkled, sweat-soaked clothes from the night before and unbrushed teeth, shared a metro car with the world of good government workers, off to a boring wednesday in the office. And I wanted to shout at them "Don't you realize? I'll never see them again!" But alas, they went about listening to their ipods, reading free papers, and generally trying not to make eye contact with anyone. And then I loaded up the car and left.

I arrived in Heytown, and then Chicago a bit melancholy. For a few weeks I regretted my decision. But slowly the pain faded. I didn't think about those I left behind every day. I didn't wish to be at deluxe or cantina with the jag and futurama. I fit myself back into chicago. I ran into old friends on the street. I saw my sister as much as I liked. I went for bike rides, and brewed beer, made ice cream, and escaped the city for more rural settings. and it felt like home.

and then responsibility (or however one might refer to grad school) ripped me away and back here. and again, i'm going through withdrawal. i want to buy cheap avocados at tiangis. i miss my walks down Milwaukee ave. i'd rather be back watching world cup with 100 mexicans in a cuban cafe. salvadorans just won't cut it. i want my yoga room and basil plant back. i want postone. i want to sleep beside someone.

i suppose its a never ending (and i mean that figuratively...it better end) cycle of becoming comfortable and then ripping yourself away. Perhaps I'm lucky to have two homes, but that also means that one is never completely home. there's always something missing. perhaps this is the postmodern condition in which space and time are both compressed and stretched. perhaps this is the direction we're all moving. but one thing i know is tomorrow afternoon i will see the great majority of the people i love who live in this city. and i can't freaking wait to go have a drink with them.

a volver

I've been back in the district for a week and am rather sad I'm no longer writing posts from the big brown couch. But perhaps what is saddest is that the big brown couch is moving. Not far, but I'll never sit on it and stare out above all the 2nd story windows again.

I've been a bit down since I've been back. I attribute this mostly to my hermit-like behavior. But a grad student's end-of-summer bank account, lack of strict schedule, and looming book chapter deadline have joined forces (a la captain planet's planeteers) to keep me shut up in my room or buried away in the cubes.

But speaking of the planeteers, In a little more than one week's time I'll be on my way back to 1/4 of the corners to see my bilagaana, the admiral kelsey wolye (wolye), get hitched. And speaking of getting hitched...keep your eyes peeled for some interesting blog posts in the near future. But until then, a pretty little picture to remind me that the florescent lights of the cubes are not the only light in the world.

gregory bald nc/tn

empleadas

after much time, i have finally cleared out my reader backlog, and found some gems. my favorite is this art project out of Colombia, Argentina, and Chile. Called Lugar Común, the aim is to (according to Sociological Images's write-up) "disrupt our acceptance of established social hierarchies."

Though the women wear identical shirts and the viewer is not told which woman is which, I found myself guessing. And perhaps I am too confident, but I'm fairly certain I can tell which is which in the vast majority. And though the blonde fluffy hair or skin color differential in many cases is part of my assumption, I think more importantly, signs of physical aging are quite telling, belying the bodily impacts of relative impoverishment. and perhaps that is exactly what is (supposed to be) highlighted by this project. we see visual evidence of the way experience is accumulated on and in the body (see Harvey 1996).

elecciónes

today (thanks to the cooke) i came across a blog about the problems with endless choice. it reminded me (at least thematically) of something i wrote back in '07 on the myspace. yes, back when i actually wrote things with frequency. back when i had "time." back when i was more jaded about my future and less jaded about the state of affairs on earth.

so first, the link to fake plastic fish's blog on choice. and for those of you annoyed or bemused by my recent attempt at plastic free-ness mr. fake fish is to blame...but i digress.

on to the meat (or tofu, if you will)

my '07 ramblings:

10 April 2007

its been a short while, and i have little to say, but much time to waste. however, one topic keeps coming up in my life: choice. now, in some ways this is obvious, being that i work for a pro-choice organization. in others, its less obvious.

last weekend, i attended the civil liberties and public policy conference at hampshire college. there were good parts (like playing 'i never' with coworkers in hotel rooms) and bad parts (transportation), but the most enlightening moment for me was when the synapses fired, long overdue, and i finally saw the intimate connection between reproductive justice and homebirth. so there you have it. we should be rallying just as much around choice in birth as choice in reproductive health.

then, this weekend, at easter dinner, i was sitting next to a 50 year old woman i had only briefly met once before. but as good diasporic midwesterners do, we talked about the homeland (hers being MN, mine being IL). she mentioned that her daughters (who grew up out east) don't understand what its like to not have choice. and to wait for things. in NY you can get whatever you want within the time it takes you to get from wall street to 42nd on the subway. probably shorter. for me, growing up, it required at 30 min car ride to bloomington. then the choices were cub foods or jewel. bergner's or jcpenney. chili's or tgi fridays. for late nights, denny's or steak n' shake. etc. etc. and being an indecisive person, this was in many ways a good thing.

last night, rhino mentioned something on a strangely similar note. we are a generation of choice. we have every product at our fingertips and this may affect us even more than the information that is so readily avaliable. perhaps the variety in choice makes us less cohesive as a generation, or perhaps it binds us together because we all crave option. whatever the case, i truly believe its a defining feature.

finally, i am left with a choice that's seeming all too important. and it has to be made by friday. really tomorrow. and i pretty much know what i want, but i'm scared to sign my name and send it off. perhaps its just poor former experiences that make me hesitate, but its time for me to start being decisive and go with it.

besides, wherever i choose, the ball will be rolling in the right direction.

this all reminds me of ol' tommy robbins, and still life with woodpecker. though its among my least favorites of his books (which as a set rank just above hoosier vonnegut jr.'s cannon), it centers around this word choice and its use on Camel cigarette descriptions. so, i'll leave you with a quote:

The word that allows yes, the word that makes no possible.

The word that puts the free in freedom and takes the obligation out of love.

The word that throws a window open after the final door is closed.

The word upon which all adventure, all exhilaration, all meaning, all honor depends.

The word that fires evolution's motor of mud.

The word that the cocoon whispers to the caterpillar.

The word that molecules recite before bonding.

The word that separates that which is dead from that which is living.

The word no mirror can turn around.

In the beginning was the word and that word was

ok, so first things first (another digression) that impending choice i had to make back on 15 april 2007 turned out just fine. even though the gill did make me question it momentarily a year later.

but the real point is that i think mr. fake fish is quite astute

...Having fewer choices of products to buy means that I can get on with what’s more important in my life. But then Scwartz goes on to say something I disagree with fundamentally, and it’s this: When there’s only one choice, you can tell yourself that the world is responsible for your decision because it didn’t give you any choice. When there are hundreds of choices, you feel that you are responsible because you could have made a better choice.

I disagree with that premise because I reject the notion that I have to choose from the menu I’m given in the first place. My choices are not chunky vs. smooth. My choice is neither. Or making my own. Or writing to the company and asking for what I want. Or starting a consumer action campaign. Or taking a walk. I think that feeling restricted to the menu companies offer us and the frustration of bumping up against the infrastructure when we try to live our values is what is depressing to many of us. That’s not freedom. It’s powerlessness.

i'm a bit inspired by all this. i think he really gets to the bottom of the freedom of choice. real choice is not A or B. real choice is having the courage to go outside the box. outside the alphabet and create the world you want. forgive my marxist metaphor (but i've been reading papa karl, lukács, and postone in the last week) but choice is not about what commodity you may achieve by selling your labor. choice is seeing the immediacy as the reification it represents. it is understanding the abstractions as such, conceptualizing "forces" as structured by human behavior, not "objective natural laws." its finding a way around the system.

and so, with that, i wish you all a happy, revolutionary, 4 july "with freedome and self-determination for all", because as an email invitation i just received states

"nobody is free until all are free"

martes de musica mala

yesterday unexpectedly turned into "bad music tuesday" in the cubicles. i thought i'd share some of the selections.

it began, really on the ride to school when e.e. played for me his least favorite song by his most favorite tennessee musical artist

well, upon arriving in the cubes, we decided that teddy-sam should hear it too. and then i made my contribution

teddy-sam followed up with his favorite



the day was then rounded out with this.

sopa roja

yesterday i made roasted red pepper soup.


it was delicious.


this means i have made it until spring break (1/2 way there) actually making soup from scratch every tuesday. resolution 1: almost complete. not sure i can say the same for that whole not being stubborn thing.